


angels

by Valorizer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Gore, Horror, Monster Girl, Muted Realism, Vague Age, dubious everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valorizer/pseuds/Valorizer
Summary: A short piece about love. Inspired by ObscureReference's fantastic 'That Girl Is A Monster'.





	1. angels

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ObscureReference](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/gifts).
  * Inspired by [That Girl Is A Monster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533304) by [ObscureReference](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObscureReference/pseuds/ObscureReference). 



“Power's out again.”  
  
The smell of mothballs and mouldering wool hung around the darkness, leaving Forrest in a sea of gently shaking coats.  
  
But it always happened when he visited her.   
Maybe there were rats in the wiring or something, but -  
  
Light flickered back into being, and resumed fumbling around in the dimly-lit closet.  
Several of the jackets here must have belonged to her father; they were too wide, too large, and _she still wore them to night classes, didn't she...  
  
_ His fingers brushed up against something unexpectedly sharp.  
  
“Found it!”  
  
As he stubbed his bleeding finger against his jeans, he could hear her pausing downstairs, the off-kilter keel of her footsteps growing louder and louder before she let herself into the all-but-unused upstairs bedroom.  
  
Gertrude's face was pale-red, not that he bought her exhaustion for a second;  
And the downcast semi-circles of her half-lidded eyes looked as if they were fixated against her freckles, and he laughed.  
  
“Is something funny...”  
  
“Nah, sorry. You just have to take better care of things like this. Can't believe I cut myself on your goddamn library card - “  
  
“You cut yourself on it?”  
  
Her eyes looked up at his, the barest hint of emotion present.  
She folded her arms over a sweater the colour of stale cream, and frowned.  
  
“Uh, yeah? I apologise if I screwed it up or whatever.”  
  
“Don't worry about it. Would you care for some, some coffee, or something...”  
  
“Nope, I've still gotta scope out the Crantley place!”  
  
It was as if their expressions were at polar odds; he could _feel_ his lips curling up into a smile, and with every hard-won inch, her frown deepened until it dragged down the edges of her sallow cheeks, and looked set to burst.  
  
“You really shouldn't.”  
  
“Gertie. Nobody likes a coward.”  
  
And he didn't mean to sound rude, but it was so _easy_ to get frustrated with her, and would've been easier still to say something _worse._  
He'd started talking to her on a dare, after Buzz'd gotten a few drinks in him, and...  
  
“I'm not a coward. But it's a condemned building, and you're just going to, to take pictures, aren't you?”  
  
Forrest couldn't help himself. His smile widened.  
  
“Damn straight - “  
  
Her lip twitched, just a little; he ignored it, studiously.  
  
“ - if there's something 'haunting' it, I wanna be the first on that shit.”  
  
She went from fixing him with those dour and cloudy eyes, to fixating on the floor; and from the way she stepped from foot to foot, it was if her skirts were shaking in the breeze.  
  
And she wasn't bad or anything, not nearly as weird as she looked, but so introverted, and they'd been just kind of hanging out like this for a week, now, and he was getting kind of fed-up with her -  
  
“Well, you shouldn't. Can you hold off on investigate until tomorrow, at least? I've got the night off, then, and you know – in case, in case something happens...”  
  
“Yeah, sure. I can work with that.”  
  
Cracked lips became a shadow of a smile, then vanished once more.  
  
“Oh! You really are bleeding, let me get some gauze, or something...”  
  
Forrest shook his head as she ran down the stairs, muttering to herself the entire time.   
The whole house smelled old, older than the Crantley place, old and unwanted –   
  
“Hey! Gertie! Me and the guys were thinking of going for drinks, later. You wanna come along?”  
  
Down the stairs, he could hear her pause, and the silence hung in the air for far too long, long enough that he started to wonder if she hadn't just given up the ghost in her own damn house.  
  
And her response was so quiet he had to strain his ears to hear:  
  
“... No, thank you. Have fun, though...”  
  
Outside, the brisk autumn air ran laps around the russet-stained gauze, her figure vanishing behind the doorframe the moment he turned his head for a second glance; the afterimage of her feverish waving soon far from his mind.


	2. archangels

“Card.”

Jose took a sip from the neon-bright glass in front of him.   
The name of the drink was long and complex, too many syllables for anyone but bartenders to care about; probably more sugar than liquor, too.   
  
Forrest stumbled in; the shiner he'd had under one eye was better, but man, he looked like shit. His man needed something, and if Jose'd been asked, it would've been _getting some_ , but Forrest was one weird guy, and in his case...  
  
Rubbing his fingers over bleary eyes, Forrest took the seat next to him, slipping a well-used forgery back into his pocket.  
  
“Geeze, man. I thought we'd have to send a rescue party!”  
  
“No, no, it's cool – she's just... Where's Buzz?”  
  
Jose shrugged, and swallowed more blue, more green, more water and corn syrup.  
He sloshed it between his teeth, and then shook the ice around the diminishing pool of light.  
  
“Fucked if I know. He talks a big game, but you know, I'm starting to think we're harder than he is.”  
  
“Man, wouldn't that be a slice.”  
  
And Forrest's drink was transparent. Jose felt that was supposed to evoke purity.  
Drinks were like that, had a rich symbolism behind them. Literature, they tried to lie to you, tell you it had all these meanings, and then went ignored the philosophy at the bottom of a glass.  
  
“Gertrude doesn't want me to go take pics over at Crantley's, but I've gotta go, man. I've gotta.”  
  
Licking his lips with his well-proportioned tongue, Forrest's expression hardened. He wasn't a badass, not even close; he was a little guy, wiry and only tanned 'cause he'd moved from the coast.   
But you got him talking about this weird shit, this _paranormal_ shit –  
  
“Do you really think there's a monster at Crantley's?”  
  
And Jose didn't bother trying to hide his skepticism.   
He would've used air quotes, if this drink didn't need refilling, and the bartender didn't just fade away the moment he thought you weren't paying attention.  
  
“There is. There fucking is, man. I know it!”  
  
Nobody got determined like Forrest.   
He'd decked a guy for making fun of one of his stupid theories, about 'cryptids' or whatever, and ever since, Buzz had pushed hard to get him hanging with them.  
  
Buzz fell out with people fast, got bored easily, but...  
  
“You're fucking crazy, Forrest.”  
  
Jose grinned, trying not to get too angry with the lax service.  
He ordered a drink made of yellow colour, with a higher price; it didn't matter what went into it, just that other people wanted it, and couldn't have it.  
  
Shuddering and biting back his excitement, Forrest nodded.  
  
“I know, I am. But you can make good money off this, too.”  
  
He sold photos, of ruined places and stuff, online – people _bid_ on them, people with more money to blow than Jose. And Jose felt he was pretty solid, but the sea of red-coloured usernames that bid anonymously on pictures of empty rooms, with empty furniture...  
  
Well, everyone drew their lines somewhere.  
Jose's fingernails sought out his neck, scratched, dug in a little.  
  
“Sure, whatever keeps you alive.”  
  
And he smiled a little bit more with every scratch.  
  
“You given up on her yet?”  
  
“Shit man, she might walk in here – “  
  
They both laughed; Gertrude never drank, apparently.  
Which was weird, but she was weird.  
  
“... I dunno. I'm telling you, she isn't all bad, she's just... Closed off, man. Give me some time. I'm not a miracle worker.”  
  
“Hey, it isn't my business. I'm just looking out for you.”  
  
Two men stared at two drinks; one the colour of amber, and the other without colour at all.  
Two sets of hands raised two glasses, and drained them dry, as around them filtered echoes from music that had been popular, a few months before.  
  
Two glasses hit the table, whisked away into the blurry light by a bartender who may as well have been a ghost.  
  
“... Gonna go. Gonna go check it out. Tell Buzz that I'm doing it tomorrow, if he hasn't nope'd the fuck out.”  
  
“Yeah, sure thing. Later, Forrest.”  
  
Jose waved him past, watching his fingers twist in the light, and trying to remember – something else, something he'd wanted to ask, but it all seemed so inconsequential, suddenly...  
  
A new drink was placed in front of him, as behind him, a roar of cold air announced a departure.


	3. principalities

There was no other way to look at it; the Crantley place was ugly.  
An ugly eyesore of a building, decimated by time and lack of interest.  
  
It'd been built with the expectation that the city'd always have this rich undercurrent, people who'd invest in architectural wonders and gothic stucco...  
  
Well, there were still _wealthy_ people around, but they didn't waste their time with the little things.  
  
Forrest's sneakers kicked up a wheezing cry of protest from fading plaster, and the dust hung in the air. The outskirts of the building were three-fold; a complex of gardens, now so much tall grass; tiles, an empty mildewed pool...  
And a covered, fenced-wire porch.  
  
The fence was modern, of course; it'd been placed up to protect the building for proposed renovation, 'cause of it's historical significance, or something.  
  
Sniffing, Forrest warmed his fingers against his jeans, rubbing them and wishing for a few moments that he'd borrowed one of Gertrude's oversized coats; the weather was bitter and chilled, and there were contaminants in the place; he wasn't dumb.   
  
He didn't want to catch mesothelioma, or whatever it was called.  
  
“All right, where are you hiding...”  
  
Each of the tiles had strange carvings on it; each one had probably been specifically pressed to cater to Crantley's weird-ass habits; maybe the idea that the place had been haunted or possessed or inhabited by something, some kind of beast or demi-human, maybe it'd come from them.  
  
 _But he knew better.  
  
_ He'd known since he was young.   
Some people talked about destiny these days, when 'destiny' boiled down to not dying in some awful nine-to-five; and they were cool with that.   
  
Fine.  
  
But Forrest, he'd known it.   
Since he was little, when he'd seen her out of the corner of the window; kneeling by the lakeside, turned away from the car and its frosted glass...  
  
“You're gonna be in a cellar or something, yeah, you're hiding from _me,_ aren't you..?”  
  
And he paced around the tile, tromping over the carved faces with a reckless swagger.  
  
Sure.   
They were always hiding from him, and he'd never found one of them.  
  
Monsters.  
  
But they existed, in the shadows and the secret world, and his destiny not only called him to find them, but gave him all the tools he needed.  
People wanted to see the underside of things; wanted to be scared.  
  
He could dig that.  
  
The camera he carried with him wasn't digital. It was a clunker.   
His mother had given it to him, told him to make home movies with it.  
  
And the way Forrest saw it, he did make movies, sometimes – of other people's homes, just without the people.  
  
And the shutter snapping disturbed several black birds, which flew into the autumn twilight.  
He watched his breath frost over as they left, grinning to himself.  
  
 _It was like adrenaline, yeah. And he needed it, craved it like a drug.  
  
_ Far in the distance, he could hear the train easing by; slowly calling out it's mournful cry to days long past.   
Most of the carriages had been tagged over. Maybe it didn't even carry anything anymore; nobody here knew, or cared.  
  
Maybe the beast just kept on going because sticking to the tracks was all it knew.  
  
After about an hour had passed, he felt all but certain he'd captured every image he possibly could; his phone was filled with the brown-green grass, the strangely emotive tiles, and the crumpled exterior of Crantley's old place.  
  
“You found her, locked her up.”  
  
Forrest whispered, feeding himself the story because that made it more _real._  
It got his fingertips itching –  
  
“Shit!”  
  
The gauze'd come undone. Maybe the cold air, or his sweat or something, had got it loose.  
And though the bleeding had long since stopped, the brown-caked cut against his finger stung sore where the cold air kissed it.  
  
Jamming his right hand into his pocket, Forrest laughed, a little. Some of the energy left him.  
  
“... Don't get distracted. I'm gonna find you, and then it'll be me who found you. It'll be my turn.”  
  
He whispered to the encroaching night; but not even birds answered his reply.  
And he still kept laughing, because that library card had got him good, hadn't it...  
  
In his pocket, his phone rang.  
  
“Buzz, you shithead. You better be ready for this.”  
  
Quiet greeted his excitement, and slowly made it numb.  
  
The other end of the line held, and held, and there wasn't even breathing; and then the silence died too, and Buzz hung up.


	4. powers

“ ** _FUCK YES_**!”  
  
It was ridiculous, she thought, how much energy the top-heavy man put into swinging a table tennis mallet around.   
Nobody else around cared at all, but for him – Buzz – it was like some kind of ritual.  
  
Melody rolled her eyes; high-school kids.  
  
They thought they were hot shit, and then they left it, and most of them could party, but at least weren't quite so dumb.  
  
Buzz's friends – his posse? His clique? – were a bit better, at least.  
  
Cynthia felt that Jose was pretty cute, and he seemed to be loaded.   
Of course, he was also one of those guys that instantly did whatever the guy in front of him did, so that sucked.  
  
Forrest, though...  
He seemed practically _normal_.   
Melody kept glancing at him, not because she was interested or anything, but because he didn't feel like he belonged with the rest of him.  
  
“Mel, you okay?”  
  
Cynthia had returned with plastic cups, and Melody took hers, gratefully.  
The world was better when it blurred, and you didn't need to worry so much –  
  
Oh, the kids though, they drank like fish. It was how you seperated 'em out...  
  
“Not really.”  
  
She excused herself with a wide smile – Buzz was already up for another game, and she'd lost interest in it, and in him.  
Cynthia and herself stood under the flickering yellow light; where smoke and the room conspired to keep their conversation private.  
  
“I guess I'm just getting old; they feel like kids to me, you know?”  
  
“Yep, I totally hear you!.. What a bust, huh? Sorry, I just thought this'd be a fun post-Brad distraction...”  
  
“Ouch, please don't mention him! My heart can't take it!”  
  
But her heart could take it, and she _was_ feeling better, truth be told.   
At least Cynthia was still awesome.  
  
“How about you? Still up for hiking, later?”  
  
“You know it; but only after I'm done with finals. My parent's would bury me without a second glance if I screwed this up any further...”  
  
“Don't worry! You've got this.”  
  
Melody felt the eyes against her neck, turned, brushed aside hanging smoke.  
  
At first, she'd thought the older girl was another college student; they'd definitely seen her around, taking...   
Night courses, maybe?   
  
Something.  
  
And, at first, she'd thought 'hey, maybe this is Buzz's girl' – but that got disproved quickly enough.  
  
“... You wanna come over and talk a bit?”  
  
The words kinda stuck in her throat; it wasn't like she minded shy girls, or anything. She'd been kind of shy growing up, sort of.  
To her surprise, the girl in the concealing clothes paced towards them in a few deft steps.  
  
She did not smile, and her eyes occasionally shot back towards the guys; towards Forrest.  
  
… On the other hand, she didn't really seem angry, or sad, or anything, either...  
  
“Bored out of your gourd?”  
  
“Not really.”  
  
And she licked her lips, and ran her tongue over her teeth.  
  
“I'm not a fan of any of this, though.”  
  
Beside Melody, Cynthia giggled, her red cup shaking in the grasp of brightly-coloured nails.  
  
As if a well had been untapped, the other girl laughed, too –   
Very quietly.  
  
“Well, whatever. You're here, now. We were just talking about hiking, maybe camping. No better time than autumn to see the sun rise on the midlands trail!”  
  
“Hmn. Mountain-climbing...”  
  
She kept glancing at Forrest's back, as he traded 'stories' with the other guys.   
  
At first, Melody had assumed it was bullshit macho conquest stuff, but then she'd heard some of the rest of it, and it was...  
Weird...  
  
“... I'm in terrible shape. I'd likely just slow you down. But it sounds pleasant.”  
  
And Melody took one look at her, and decided that she was lying; there was something about her that seemed all wound up, like a spring or something – but hey.  
That was no business of hers.  
  
“Yeah, it's gonna be kickass! What's your name, anyway?”  
  
And it was then that she smiled, and it was a very wide smile, indeed.  
  
“Gertrude.”


	5. virtues

Cynthia had spent the day cramming; she _knew_ logically that it didn't help, but at some point you had to give up on logic, and pack your days full of hope!  
That's what she believed, anyway.  
  
And it'd done her well enough, to be fair.  
  
The community college was a nice place, a little less ritzy, but she'd just been glad to attend; meet cool girls like Mel, finally get out of the boonies.   
Life wasn't perfect here, but – her ma hadn't raised a dunce, and Cynthia felt that the future was going to be even better.  
  
… She caught sight of Gertrude walking out of one of the night classes that she took.  
  
It couldn't have been packed; was probably one of those reaaaally niche courses, like mushroom hunting or polka dancing, or whatever all the seniors took...  
  
Cynthia mentally corrected herself, even as she waved Gertrude down.  
There were seniors in her math classes, too; they were even nice!  
But, anyway, Gertrude just seemed like the kind of girl who'd take some class packed full of old people –  
  
“Oh. Cynthia.”  
  
There was that pause. Like Gertrude was re-calibrating to deal with you, like she hadn't even noticed you...   
  
But she had.  
  
Once, Cynthia's pa had chased off some guy who wanted to key their car, maybe steal it.   
The two had engaged in a chase that would've been funny if she weren't scared for his safety, and had ended up with him staring down the guy with this crazy resolve...  
  
And that was how Gertrude looked at you.  
  
Maybe it was kind of cool, but Cynthia felt pretty sure it was just that she didn't have many friends, at all, so...  
  
“How are you doing?”  
  
Gertrude did smile, too – just not with her face, not often.  
  
 _In fact,_ Cynthia had figured out she wasn't shy at all, exactly; just reserved. Just modest.  
And driven, like anybody who lived on their own must be, if they weren't, uh, weird...  
  
“Pretty good, pretty good! I feel like this break is gonna be awesome! You really should come hiking with us; I guarantee Melody is up for it. She can seem really aloof, but – “  
  
“It's not that.”  
  
Gertrude paused, for a few minutes.   
The hazy fog of her eyes drifted by passing students, looking for something.  
  
Then she smiled, only just.  
  
“... But thank you. The two of you seem pretty close.”  
  
“Oh, no, not really. I mean, I'd like to be closer with her; we'll see.”  
  
“Good luck.”  
  
Cynthia caught sight him across the street.  
  
… She didn't really like Forrest.   
He wasn't a creep, or anything; but that made him _worse._  
She couldn't place her finger on it, but something about him...  
  
Her bright brown eyes accidentally met Gertrude's cold blue, and for no reason at all, Cynthia found the words burbling from her lips.  
  
“You aren't going, ahaha, to look at the old Crantley estate with him, right? That's not what you're up to? 'Cause liiiike, that place is absolutely fucking dangerous, I mean, I knew a guy who fell and impaled his shin on some rebar or something – “  
  
“He's going there..?”  
  
And Gertrude's lips pursed.  
  
“Oh..?”  
  
Cynthia beamed, deciding on a safe interpretation that shielded her from the utter unreadability that had flooded over Gertrude's face just moments ago.  
  
“You like him? Well, you know, I've heard he is, from that loudmouth...”  
  
“Buzz. He certainly is, isn't he...”  
  
And Gertrude smiled.  
It was thin, and stretched, and took a great deal of effort to maintain.  
  
“... To answer your question, though, I wouldn't say I do...”  
  
“Er?”  
  
Well, it was possible that she'd misread Gertrude; the woman was like, kind of enigmatic.  
  
But then, Gertrude steepled her fingers under her chin, and shut her eyes – and her smile softened, even at the edges.  
  
“... Don't you think he seems a little lonely?..”


	6. dominions

It was a routine.   
  
Listen for the final bell, gather your things, leave.   
And it'd been plenty easy when he arrived; plenty easy because there'd been nobody else to talk to.  
  
Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, he'd crossed paths with Buzz and Jose not long after they'd moved in. And like everybody who moved to a new place, he'd been eager to have somebody, anybody to talk to –  
  
Jose reminded him a little of a friend he'd had, once.   
Buzz was just empty words, but that was enough.  
  
So they'd started going out drinking, and talking about girls, and killing time.  
  
He hadn't really noticed it at first; it was Buzz that had pointed it out to him.  
They were drinking from Buzz's 'magic paper bag' outside some fast-food place that had once been part of a national franchise.  
  
Now it was independent. Still dying, dying a slow death in this town; but not quite there yet.  
  
In the distance, he could hear the train against its iron tracks, what he'd come to think of as the sound most emblematic of this place...  
  
“So. Why the fuck do you have a groupie?”  
  
“I do?”  
  
Buzz sniffed, broad and pale hands wiping under his nose.   
The autumn had set in early, and it was cold; not bone-chilling cold, mind, but the more insidious chill that crept under your clothes until you didn't notice it, leaving you nothing but numb.  
  
“Yeah. Jose, back me up here...”  
  
“Sure, Buzz. You totally do. Forrest! You telling me you haven't noticed her?”  
  
He hadn't.  
To be honest, he hadn't noticed her at all.  
  
She was tall and gangly and unattractive, and worst of all she was forgettable.   
Apparently, there'd been an urban legend about how unapproachable she was.  
Maybe that was what convinced him.  
  
“What, uh, Gertrude?”  
  
“Mmn. I don't think I've seen her look at anyone like that. She totally wants it.”  
  
Buzz smiled thinly, throwing the bag over his shoulder.  
It drifted to the ground, and he ground it under his foot.  
  
… And there it stuck, so he kept slamming his foot against concrete, looking more silly every time.  
  
“... Y'know, I don't really feel like messing with some dumb girl.”  
  
 _He couldn't tell them what he really meant. Who he was holding out for._  
  
And he didn't really wanna mess with her, either.   
Just because he was associating with these two, it wasn't like he wanted to break her heart, really, anyone's heart.  
Forrest just imagined she was kind of fragile, probably.  
  
Jose was watching the rain and fog intermingle; it felt like it wanted to snow, almost, but the weather just couldn't muster up the concern to do so.  
  
“Dude! You're just going to pass an opportunity up, what are you?”  
  
“Yeah, man.”  
  
Buzz sidled up, face red from drink.  
  
… He had a weak constitution, Buzz.  
  
“C'mon, you a man? Just slam that shit. I fucking dare you.”  
  
What were they? _Twelve?  
  
_ But despite himself, with only the two of them around, he felt younger, and more embarrassed, and more susceptible, and Buzz's breath smelled of cheap alcohol –  
  
“Yeah, fine, whatever! I'll do it, sure, I'll talk to her. I bet I fucking get more than either of you.”  
  
And Buzz backed off, laughing up at the sky with both of his hands in the air, whooping and hollaring.  
Jose started laughing too, because if Buzz was laughing something was probably funny, probably...  
  
… What the hell.  
  
“She's just a timekiller though. See, I've got a real interest. A real hobby you shitkickers couldn't even imagine.”  
  
“Uh-huh.”  
  
Buzz began, but Jose interrupted.  
  
“Go on, try me. Man, I've seen some weird shit; you better believe I won't just fold.”  
  
“All right. All right.”  
  
Forrest began, feeling emboldened by the creeping cold. He smiled up at the sky, and he could feel it; fate.   
  
__Destiny.  
  
“... There are monsters in the world, and I'm gonna find one.”


	7. thrones

Everything about it had felt like the beginning of a fairy tale, or a movie.  
She'd been walking back from night courses, and he'd been following her.  
Forrest had felt certain she noticed, but had made no effort to talk to him at all.  
  
Halfway through, he'd started to feel weird.  
Nervous.  
Uncertain.  
  
But the feelings had left soon enough, even though they were alone under the empty black sky.  
  
In the distance, the train was calling out it's mourning song, and it obscured his first call to her.  
  
“Hey! Gertrude!”  
  
She paused in the cold air, and turned just slightly, to face him.  
  
Bravado that he'd worked up in front of his new friends had faded away, because he wasn't really interested in her, because he wasn't interested in this, because suddenly he felt so very small.  
  
One brown eyebrow rose against her eyes, and slowly, she smiled.  
  
“You're not very brave, are you...”  
  
And then she began to laugh.  
  
The train began to roar again, and he felt like his nerves had caught in his chest.  
 _No way...  
  
_ “Don't just stand there. You can walk a bit closer... If you like.”  
  
As if bidden, he took a step forward.   
She was watching him with that neutral expression, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that he'd just been following her, that he'd, that he'd...  
  
“Buzz and, Buzz and Jose put me up to this. I'm gonna – I'm just messing with you...”  
  
He didn't mean to say it so suddenly, so crassly; but he did.  
  
And still, she laughed.  
  
“... Is that so...”  
  
Forrest realized how he'd misjudged her; it'd been easy to do.   
Some weird girl, always on her own, nose in her books, not associating with anyone...  
  
 _But that was just an image, wasn't it.  
  
_ Above, an unseasonably early snow had crystallized, falling gently around their feet.  
  
She strode up to him, the grey of her skirts exposing only tightly-laced boots, and nothing else.  
  
“So I see. Maybe _you_ should mess with _them._ ”  
  
Now she was closer, and smiling a little – not so much with her lips, more with her eyes.   
She held her hands in front of her chest, carrying that burlap bag close; it was filled with her textbooks, but he was only looking at it to avoid looking at her.  
  
“Didn't you hear me – I'm not, I'm not fucking interested...”  
  
“That's all right. You're new here, right?”  
  
“How'd you – “  
  
“Are you lonely?”  
  
Forrest shut his eyes; the snow was as comforting as her rough fingers against his neck, and –  
  
 _Yes.  
He was incredibly lonely.  
And he had been lonely since he moved to this dying town, in the dying world;  
  
But why was she being patient with him..?  
  
_“Well – why not... Walk the rest of the way home, with me? You can tell your... Friends... All about it.”  
  
He gulped back air, nodded, opened his eyes.  
  
Gertrude's were staring right into his, a blue as pale as snow across a lake.  
  
She pulled back, laughing, and not even bothering to hide it; and he nodded again, and began walking at her side.  
It all spilled out then; he told her about his resentment of his parents, of Buzz, about his goal – his destiny.  
  
… And it was weird.  
She didn't mock him at all, didn't judge him at all for it.  
  
Just kept shooting him glances all the while.  
  
 _Maybe,_ he wondered, __she was interested in him..?  
  
“Well... This is me. You can come in, if you like. I live alone.”  
  
Forrest felt grateful that she shut her eyes; because it was almost too much to stare at them any longer.  
  
“Just know that I lose power a lot, for whatever reason. So, if you want coffee or tea or anything, you'll probably have to stay a little while...”  
  
“Yeah. Okay.”  
  
He brushed the melting snow from his back, and smiled at her.  
  
“Nice to meet you properly, Gertie.”


	8. cherubim

Buzz wasn't sure what was up.  
  
Forrest was a crazy diamond, for sure, but he was one of their pack. One of _his_ pack.  
And yet, he'd been spending more time with that stupid girl then the rest of 'em.  
Was he getting a swollen head, or something..?  
  
Plus, he hadn't coughed up any interesting stories, yet. Which meant he was all talk and no show.  
It'd been high past time for an intervention, and Buzz didn't let his pack get eaten alive.  
  
So he'd waited outside the community college, playing with his phone and letting time die around him.  
  
The weather was cold, always cold, all the time – cold in a way that felt like it met never get warm again.  
  
… Uh?  
  
His green eyes shot up from the screen; they were arguing. No, that wasn't the word for it; she was talking with a great deal of emotion, more then he'd ever heard from her, and he was replying forcefully...  
  
 _Aha, the plan to investigate the Crantley place.  
  
_ Buzz sniffed, chuckling to himself.  
So she was just one of those types; a real mother hen.   
Time to ruffle a few feathers, then...  
  
Forrest had left, and at least his boy had the tenacity to not let her get under his skin.  
  
Buzz sauntered over; but grew distracted at the last minute, because the moment he'd left her expression had gone from worried to –  
  
He crashed into her, and they both fell to the ground, her bookbag falling on the wet pavement.  
She fell to her knees, eyes turning into wide mirrors of blue.  
  
“Sor... Sorry...”  
  
Buzz murmured, hating how _weak_ he sounded.  
(And, a part of him whispered, he always sounded like this when it came down to the wire. And he buried it deeper, and deeper, and deeper away – )  
  
Then, he saw one of the 'textbooks' she'd spilled; the cover was black, and had golden lines against it; and the lines formed pictures, pictures of things, and he couldn't put a name to them but they made him want to _squirm_.  
  
“Give. _That._ _**Back.**_ ”  
  
It was a demand, and some of his posturing returned. A sneer crawled up onto his lips, and he waved the small book around in the cool breeze.  
  
“I should've guessed you were some kind of religious freak. You want this?”  
  
“... Not really. You can read it, if you like.”  
  
Almost at once, the hatred had fled from her voice; and something less pleasant still had come over it; he realized how _alone_ they were, and the night was still cold, and he was just some guy, waving a book around in the air –  
  
“Like, like I care...”  
  
He threw it to the ground, and got up to walk away, but something kept him there – kept him back.  
  
“You know, he's gonna go to that stupid fucking house, bitch. He'll find what he's looking for there, and you'll be, he'll totally be over you.”  
  
It sounded _ridiculous_ when he said it aloud. Nobody believed in anything like that; he didn't believe and yet...  
  
“Probably.”  
  
Her long fingers cradled around the ecclesiastical text as if it were a lost child, shuffling it back into its bag with a tender touch.  
  
“... Buzz, isn't it. Do you believe that _he_ believes in things like that?”  
  
Maybe he'd been wrong; maybe _she_ was messing with Forrest.   
Well, that'd be entertaining at least, and Buzz shifted aisles easily.  
  
“Yeah, of course he does. Stupid stuff like that. I mean, haunted houses, monsters...”  
  
“ _What do you believe in, Buzz?”  
  
_ God, but he could smell her breath right then – and she was very close, she was almost on top of him; Buzz stumbled back, falling flat against his ass and the concrete, and jutting a meaty finger her way.  
His lips flapped, but no noise came out – and he just waved, waved his finger in the cold air, like a torch...  
  
A torch that was sputtering, and dead.  
  
“I'll call him. Warn him about you. You – you...”  
  
She had packed her books away, packed in her things, and began walking away from him; her figure small and blurry in the falling dark.  
  
But he could make out her eyes, turned to face him.  
Could make out that _smile._  
  
“Please do.”


	9. seraphim

The Crantley place was exactly as he imagined it to be. Sure, he'd had that stupid fight with Gertrude, but destiny had told him to be here, destiny had brought his eye to that weird fallen painting and the slit in the wall, destiny had _promised him_ a _monster.  
  
_ And the passageway led underground, like the blueprints he'd found while hunting info at the library, while Gertrude read her books.   
He felt bad thinking about her, but he'd told her, and she'd acted like she didn't mind so –  
  
Several rooms were here, under the ground.   
Cells, maybe; who could say.   
One had a cradle in it; he took several photos, knowing that even if the reasoning were perfectly mundane, there'd be people who'd want them, people who'd pay top price.  
  
But his fervor began to melt away, as room after room turned into yet another dead end.  
  
Nothing clung to the shadows here; time after time he heard a sound that might be described as inhumanly beautiful wings against the wind, or unnatural feet against stone...  
Heard, however. Not saw – and the ears were readily deceived.  
  
And as minutes turned into hours, destiny began to die, replaced with the awful, horrible revelation that the Crantley place was nothing more than a _boring, condemned manor-house.  
  
_ One story underground, he laughed and stared up at the incomplete ceiling tile.   
  
Then, he drew close to the ground, arms around his knees, and shut his eyes.  
  
 _He knew what he'd seen; seen her when he was young. The image had never left his mind even when he'd wanted it to; he dreamt about her when he slept, and caught sight of her in the waking twilight.  
  
But it had been so very long, chasing his dream – and perhaps, that's all she'd been, and he'd just been a colossal fool...  
  
_Shuddering awake, he pulled himself from the ground, took a step forward, and lurched straight into the semi-open flooring.  
  
Tiling ripped through his thigh, rendering blood and bone, and he could see bone, white against the ground.  
  
He didn't hurt, somehow. Even with the skin flapping like that, bits of fabric – blue and intangible – drifting easily with torn skin, he should feel _something, right...  
  
_ Grunting, Forrest tried to pick himself up, and only fell farther.  
  
… Time passed, lost under the ground. Steam hissed up from somewhere.  
  
She'd warned him.   
Not about monsters, about this dream he'd had, about _this.  
  
He wasn't going to die because of some vengeful ghost, but because of a perfectly ordinary unfinished basement.  
  
_And he laughed, even through the tears.  
  
His leg flopped a little, and pried loose, and Forrest crashed to the floor.  
And his vision felt blurry, but it felt like a new purpose was soaring within him; he was alive. Forcing himself to rise, his fingers went instinctively for something to use as a crutch, but found his camera.  
  
 _In the darkness, he saw it.  
Something – and it saw him, pale and breathing ragged, and fled on four limbs into one of the underground rooms.  
  
And it was terrifyingly beautiful, and his breath caught in his throat.  
  
The time was now. Destiny was here.  
  
Would he chase it, or...  
  
_Forrest shook, crying freely, for there was nothing else around to see him; his fingers fumbled with the camera, and he wondered if he might throw it to the floor, shattering plastic.   
But eventually he let it drape against his shoulder, seized a piece of construction cement, cylindrical and solid, and managed to limp back upstairs and outside with it.  
  
Rain was falling, everywhere; a pure and beautiful rain.  
  
It crashed down upon him, rising with sweat and blood into the fog, and he wanted to lose himself in it; but finding a better crutch, a tall piece of fallen wood, he limped out and managed to navigate to the closest place he could remember finding.  
  
Her house. Gertrude's house.  
  
Outside, the rain was continuing to fall, and he was aware that he'd left the door open; just as he was aware of it being drawn closed, even as his vision swam, in and out of consciousness.  
  
 _but Gertrude always welcomed him_  
  
she always mentioned her presence or made it known through clumsy footfalls  
  
and always, always, she cared for him when he was hurt, and he hurt now and  
  
Dusk and rain wed each other outside, and the train screamed at the top of iron lungs, desperate to be heard. His ears strained to hear it, and yet the sound felt as distant as a sudden flash of memory, of a young child that had borne his name, staring out a passing window at something he'd felt he'd seen.  
  
The sound of the train faded, and beneath it he could hear something else –  
  
Something that sounded like breath.  
  
It was behind him. Close by.  
  
 **The power went out.**


	10. men

each breath is a blessing. without power the house is cold, the way she likes it.  
and every day is cold, now.  
his breath is cold, too, even though he wants it to be warm.  
… the lick of his tongue is warm, and she eagerly steals it from him.  
  
fumbling now; he's fumbling around in the dark, moving left and right and against the wood, hard enough to make an outline. only his leg is tracing red against brown, but if the snow fell inside...  
  
around them, the floorboards creak with every layer she removes. they should not tremble so heavily, but for the excitement she feels; and the excitement is electrical, and she's spent so long trying to control it, to ride it out; but there's no point in doing that, anymore  
  
two syllables. a name.  
  
(she'd given it to him. not her name. not her _real_ name.)  
  
his reward is her delight. and the outside of his skin is bare, and the inside too; flexing and bending with greedy fingertips rich with more then just red.  
yellow and green colour intermingle as she withdraws her hand, and he is not shaking so terribly now.  
  
no. she does not care for the taste, but he will.  
  
jaw widened, held open; she watches it shake, wonders if it might pry loose. he tries to shut it down, but is still feeling her tongue on his, still feeling for his tongue, but he'll adapt soon.  
  
and his lips close around her fingers, hesitancy fading as the sweetness of a kiss turns to a desperate hunger.  
familiar.  
cold.  
  
of course he wanted this too  
  
so much so that he's shaking with happy protest which is eager to dislodge the taste of his own bile so that he can have more, but she is greedy and does not wish to share, and caresses the trembling lips with her dry, sharp teeth  
  
(ssssh, she whispers; and the moisture around his eyes is taken too, and he nods because her eyes are gentle and he remembers it and associates it with desperate hope)  
  
he is clothed and she is not; but she is clothed in light, and he is not.  
  
drawers shake as her fingertips winnow his hair into a spool and let it drift free; the cold is settling in over his head now, so it takes so very little pressure to explore his scalp.  
but there will be time for that later  
she must not be impatient  
  
and she kisses hard enough to raise welts, fighting back selfish greed.  
  
first falls the jacket; opened to both sides. up is lifted the shirt, exposing the rise and fall of his breath – warm again, warmer still, rough and ragged and afraid and _happy_ and she is gentle and comforting as she coos to him, tracing little guidelines against his stomach:  
  
when the fruit of it splits open, the smell is sweeter then sunrise and ripe apples, she decides; and she buries herself in the scent of it, while he continues to breath, shifting rapidly under her.  
  
it's so close now – his heart.  
  
the sounds defy meaning now, and he is making them constantly. _joyous sounds,_ she decides, but it is the last conscious decision she makes, because she cannot fight it any longer, the yearning that his built up over so many years  
  
outside the rain continues to fall, a continuous sound; a sloshing-meat sound, soaked and flooded and sopping wet. each individual droplet splatters, and though she cannot see them she imagines they are red like he is red on the inside (and green and white and yellow and so many shades he cannot see)  
  
they are not so different and she shows him, even as he is shaking: he nods, because she wants him to nod and for the first time anger threatens to overwhelm her – how can he not see after spending so long looking right at her?  
  
but he still pretends and that shall have to be enough.  
  
he is looking askance now. sideways.  
no longer will he look at her.  
oh, oh, no...  
  
and she falls against his open chest, the cavity welcoming her down upon it and her long fingers cradle his neck and pull his gaping mouth to hers and for the first time she kisses him and it is a gentle kiss and she will hold back the last of this desire if he will just hold on a bit longer, if he will live a bit longer, only for awhile, only for a moment  
  
(he's shaking now but he's still there, the clouds have not parted against his eyes, please)  
  
the meat of his lips is tempting, and he mashes them up against the whiteness of her skin; and she cries tears of happiness and holds him to her in a tight embrace, twisting and imprisoning his body betwixt the wood and her until the last little bit of warmth flees, even as he's breathing, still breathing, slowly  
  
all the hunger is gone now, sated now, and she can satisfy the rest of it; and she places the mottled-tan flesh of his to her lips, and daintily do sharp teeth tear skin free, and play it between their whiteness

  
  
as the power  
  
  


flickers  
  


**on**


End file.
